


A Tricky Position

by RosingsPark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, Yoga
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-17 01:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9298124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosingsPark/pseuds/RosingsPark
Summary: Through Courfeyrac's orchestrations, Enjolras ends up in a yoga class to alleviate his stress. Things turn out differently than expected.





	1. A sudden decision

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter One: In Which Courfeyrac and Combeferre Are Done With Enjolras' Shit.

It is a Friday night when Combeferre is _so_ done with Enjolras being Enjolras, that he leans over on the couch, snatches Enjolras’ laptop off his lap and closes it in one smooth movement.

Enjolras looks up, shocked. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

“What in God’s name are _you_ doing?” Combeferre repeats. “It’s Friday night, eleven o’clock, and you’re still working. That’s not healthy.”

Enjolras is busily working on a case of a family that’s being threatened with being sent back to Syria because, according to some officials, their situation is not grave enough. The thought makes Enjolras feel physically sick.

“But this family really needs – ” Enjolras starts to protest, but Combeferre interrupts him. “That family isn’t going anywhere right now. They certainly won’t be sent back on a Friday night. They understand you actually have a life that does not revolve around them. Whether _you_ understand that is another question.”

“Do you even understand how important this is?” Enjolras cries out, and he regrets his harshness as soon as the words have left his mouth.

Combeferre, however, doesn’t flinch, and keeps on persuading Enjolras to call it a day.

“Of course I understand it’s important. But the hearing isn’t until next Friday, so you have plenty of time left to prepare. And I’ve known you long enough to know that you had a rough draft of your speech ready at least two weeks ago.”

“Combeferre is right, Enjy” Courfeyrac cries from the kitchen where he is preparing drinks, and Enjolras realises that they’ve planned this, that they’re ganging up on him. He leans back on the couch and crosses his arms, nodding grudgingly. Then he winces from the stretch of his neck and back muscles this movement produces.

He tries to subtly shift around and sit so his back doesn’t hurt, but Courfeyrac, balancing three large glasses of colourful liquids in his hands, is nothing if not observant.

“Does your back hurt?” he asks, as he hands Enjolras an Combeferre their drinks.

“Just a bit,” Enjolras says. He takes a sip of the drink Courfeyrac gave him, and wrinkles his nose. It’s very sweet and very alcoholic.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre share a look as if they’re an old married couple preparing themselves to have a talk with their rebellious teenage child, and Enjolras thinks that it’s really time for them to pull their shit together.

“That’s what you’ll get from sitting in the same position without moving for twelve hours straight.”

“I think it’s more than twelve hours, even,” Combeferre adds.

See? Ganging up on him.

“Look here, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, not unkindly. “Your work is nothing short of admirable. You save so many people. They are forced to leave their home, their family, and come to a completely strange country where everything is difficult and different, and then there’s you who makes their life just that little bit easier and happier. We get that and we love you for doing something so amazing. But you can’t forget yourself.”

“It’s not healthy,” Combeferre puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and winces. “God, Enjolras, your shoulders are rock hard.”

 “See? Not healthy. Not physically. But not mentally either. Your work immerses you in so much sadness and worry. You need to stop to rewind, or you’ll drown in your work.”

“But if I don’t do it, who will help them?” Enjolras objects, but he does turn around on the couch at a hand gesture  from Combeferre, so that he sits with his back facing his friend.

“We’re not asking you to quit your job,” Combeferre sighs, as he starts to massage some life back into Enjolras’ shoulders, “just that you take some time for yourself as well. By the way, your shoulders feel worse than ever. They weren’t even this bad during test weeks at Uni.”

Enjolras nods slowly. Maybe they have a point when they say it’s not very healthy. They must have a point. Enjolras knows they have his best interests at heart and wouldn’t lie about this kind of thing. He trusts them.

“You know, I’ve just got an idea,” Courfeyrac says innocently, a grin spreading on his face.

Enjolras takes that back. He doesn’t trust Courfeyrac at all. Not when he so clearly has A Plan. With capitals.

“Courfeyrac..” Combeferre says in a warning tone that Enjolras doesn’t understand. Which is worrying.

“Courf, if you’re going to say I should get laid, then just.. don’t,” Enjolras sighs.

Courfeyrac’s grin gets even wider, if possible.

“That was not what I was going to suggest, but, hey, good idea. No, what I was going to say, maybe you should try yoga.” 

“Yoga,” Enjolras repeats in a deadpan voice.

Courfeyrac looks over Enjolras’ shoulder at Combeferre, and they’re clearly having one of their telepathical conversations, based on Courf’s expression. He wonders when they are going to find out they are in fact already married.

Apparently Courfeyrac’s wiggly eyebrows and intense staring have worked, because he hears Combeferre sigh in surrender. He says in a resigned sort of voice, as though he’s reading aloud from a brochure, “Yoga is very good for you, Enjolras. It relaxes your entire body. Just an hour every week makes you feel much better.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And why is that?” Courfeyrac asks, leaning over.

“Because my limbs weren’t made for ‘sitting cats’ and ‘jumping sloths’ and ‘waving sunflower’ and whatever those yoga moves are called. Besides,” he adds, “I really don’t have the time.”

“Never mind the yoga moves, you’ll learn all of them,” Courfeyrac assures him, “And as for time, we know for a fact that you don’t have to go to the office on Monday until 12 o’clock. Plenty of time for an hour of yoga in the morning.”

“But, but, those are very valuable hours. To prepare for work and everything. Besides, why can’t you or Combeferre do it? The both of you have always been doing it for me.”

From behind him, Combeferre, who is still massaging Enjolras’ back, says, “I think your shoulder muscles are in need of something more serious than our massaging.”

Enjolras grumbles and pouts at Courfeyrac.

In response, Courfeyrac sighs. “I’m sad that it had to come to this, Enjolras. You’re a difficult child, sometimes. We had hoped you’d agree to this immediately, but we knew that you wouldn’t go along with it without a struggle, so,” fishing his phone out of his pocket, “I will have to resort to blackmail.” He gives him a sad smile. “On this telephone, I _will_ call the yoga centre. And don’t bother fighting to steal my phone, because I have a very conveniently placed Combeferre sitting behind you. He will restrain you. Forcefully, if needs be.”

“Courfeyrac, it’s eleven o’clock. On a Friday night, as Combeferre so kindly reminded me of. Nobody’s going to be at that yoga centre.”

“We-e-e-ll,” Courfeyrac counters, “maybe... maybe I have a friend who works there.”

“Courfeyrac, no” the warning tone in Combeferre’s voice is back with a vengeance, and Enjolras will never publicly admit how much it frightens him.

“Courfeyrac, yes,” his friend parrots, holding up the phone. “He’ll pick up any time and put your name in the computer for the beginner’s group that starts on Monday at 9.30. Unless...”

“Unless I promise to go,” Enjolras finishes. “So I see I don’t have many options. Either you call that friend of yours or I spare you the effort and do it myself. Hardly blackmail.” He sighs in resignation. He has to admit, Combeferre massaging his shoulders like that is very relaxing. He has never tried yoga before, and even though he is about as supple as a stick, perhaps it might even work out.

He takes another sip of the colourful concoction Courfeyrac has prepared, and says, finally, “Fine.”

Courfeyrac lets out a happy shriek and pulls him into a hug.

            ---

Saturday nights at the Musain have been a tradition since the third year of Enjolras’ bachelor when he, Combeferre and Courfeyrac met a bunch of others who were politically inclined. They found the beautiful café on the Keizersgracht, in the centre of the city. It was one of the older buildings, typical for Amsterdam. Three stories high with a gabled roof in the shape of stairs, and narrow windows. Time has made the building lean over, like the Tower of Pisa.

After several Thursday nights of debating, chatting and steadily becoming real friends, they decided to form an official group, Les Amis de l’ABC – a name the French Literature student Jehan came up with – and issue a monthly newspaper that’s growing stronger every year.

The Saturday night gatherings are different from the Thursday night meetings; they’re less formal and more a get-together between friends than anything else, spent in the central room of the café rather than in the backroom. Where Thursday meetings have an unspoken rule of always having to be present, on Saturday night everyone is free to do as they like. Still, most of their group end up in the café.

Cursing the heavy rainfall winter in Amsterdam brings, Enjolras closes the door to the café behind him and shrugs off his wet coat. He is met with an enticing smell of fresh coffee – Enjolras thanks every deity for creating the Coffee Goddess that is Éponine Thenardier – and the gentle murmur of a growing amount of customers around the café.

He quickly hangs up his coat, and is tackled by Courfeyrac and Bahorel, who engulf him in a bear hug. When he manages to disentangle himself, he finds his way over to the counter, where Éponine is busy pouring glasses of wine and beer. When she’s finished, he leans slightly over the bar and asks her for three beers.

Immediately, there’s a comment from a person to his right. “Well, I must be dreaming. You ordering beer.”

Enjolras sighs. “Hello, Grantaire.”

“Enjolras,”  he nods his greeting.

“Aren’t you going to attack me on my choice of beer?”

Grantaire is, well, Grantaire. Enjolras isn’t even sure since when Grantaire has been coming to their meetings, but he knows that come rain or shine, Grantaire is _always_ present. He’s like a steady source of antagonism and counterarguments, sitting with his feet propped up on a table, a beer in his hand, always telling Enjolras just how _wrong_ he is. Most of the time they both manage to behave until the meeting is near the end, but once they start, their friends have a hard time getting a word edgewise. Not that he and Grantaire are friends. Enjolras has thought about it, whether spending every Thursday and Saturday night arguing together and sharing several mutual friends amounts to a friendship, but he has come to the conclusion that they have never had a single civil conversation and that therefore, the definition of friendship can’t be applied to them.

“What?” Grantaire replies. “It’s almost like you _want_ me to argue with you. As if you _enjoy_ it.” He offers Enjolras a grin. “Besides,” he adds, holding up his own bottle of beer. “I’m drinking the same.”

“Well then,”  Enjolras says, his eyebrows raised, “Seems we finally agree on something then. Choice of beer.”

“Fantastic feeling, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

They both sense something about the conversation is off; Enjolras is just about to take the three bottles of beer and head back to his friends, when Grantaire takes the matter in hands and turns the conversation on its head so it fits nicely with the other conversations they have. He leans towards Enjolras, that sly smile on his face, and says: “So, what do you think about that government statement from this morning about... immigration. They have a point, right?”

After Éponine seperates them, recounting the deal Enjolras and Grantaire have made with her – no loud arguments in the café on Saturdays unless it’s in the backroom, “I don’t want to lose any more customers because of you two” – and threatening to lock the two of them up, Enjolras calms down enough to pick up the two remaining beers and rejoin Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

They immediately berate him for antagonising Grantaire again, and Enjolras pouts and says that it wasn’t him, not this time, at least, and it seems to satisfy his friends, though they only continue their conversation after sharing a look and shaking their heads.

A little while later, when most of them have arrived at the café and they’re sharing another round of beers, Courfeyrac makes an announcement.

“Enjolras is going to join a _yoga class_.” He says the last words with emphasis.

Enjolras flushes red.

“ _Courfeyrac_.” Enjolras has known Combeferre since forever and recognises the admonishing tone of voice, but he has no clue what Combeferre actually means with it.

Courfeyrac obviously does, because he offers Combeferre a grin in return.

There are several noises and questions around the table, but most of them amount to surprised yet approving. There are even some exclamations of “Finally!”. Jehan is excitedly clapping his hands and Joly is telling him how beneficial it is to his health. Bahorel tells him that after a while, he will be able to do things he never imagined with his body.

Only Grantaire is strangely quiet. When Courfeyrac dropped the bomb, Enjolras really expected only one thing, and that was a mocking comment from Grantaire. Instead, he quietly asks where.

Enjolras isn’t yet sure of the particulars, has only googled the company once, to satisfy his curiosity. It had several five and four star reviews, so it seemed just fine.

Instead, Courfeyrac tells everyone where and when the great event is going to take place, and oddly, the colour seems to drain from Grantaire’s face.

He doesn’t understand anything in this world.

“I’m only doing a beginner’s class, though,” Enjolras says. Something in him forces him to observe Grantaire’s reaction to his words. Things get even more curious when Enjolras sees Grantaire visibly relax, some of its former colour returning to Grantaire’s face.

He wonders if he should be offended? Is Grantaire relieved that he’s only doing a beginner’s class? Does he think Enjolras is incapable of an advanced class? He has no clue, but he is saved from having to overthink the matter by Grantaire standing up and heading over to Éponine for another beer and a hushed conversation.

The conversations flows into something else quite naturally, and when Grantaire rejoins them, he looks like his normal self again. And well, if Enjolras finds his eyes fleeting to Grantaire now and again, no one need know.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EVERYTHING IS COURFEYRAC’S FAULT AND ENJOLRAS IS IN A DIFFICULT POSITION- LITERALLY AS WELL AS FIGURATIVELY.

It’s Monday morning, 9.20 sharp, and Enjolras strides into the yoga centre like he it’s his single goal in life. The first thing he notices is how everything is white; but not a hospital, blue-ish kind of white. Rather, the walls are the colour of coffee cream and there’s a leather couch of the same colour, adorned with pillows of various sizes and colours. In front of the couch a light, wooden table on which an assortment of outdated magazines are spread out. Next to it, a modern-looking coffeemachine. For so bare and white a room, there’s a surprisingly cozy atmosphere. From speakers attached to every corner of the room comes the soft chatter of a commercial radio station.

The next thing Enjolras notices is that the room is completely empty, which strikes him as more than a little odd. Surely, for a class that starts at 9.30, you’d expect people to be present before that time, right? Right?

He checks his diary, whether he has written down the right date and the right time, but they seem in order. Next he checks whether he’s at the right location, but the name on one of the brochures he sees lying about the room is the same name as the one Courfeyrac mentioned at the Saturday night meeting.

He’s at the right place at the right time, except he’s all alone. He tries to think of a logical reason, but, truth be told, he is getting increasingly confused. He paces the room for a minute, then, when he reminds himself of the promise he made to Courfeyrac, to go into this experience with an open mind, he wills himself to sit down on the surprisingly comfortable sofa.

He whips out his phone and checks the time. It’s nearing 9.25 and there is not a single soul to be seen. How great is that, he thinks. He could’ve spent all this precious time on the case of the Syrian refugees, preparing the hearing on Friday, but instead, he’s sitting all alone in a waiting room – but waiting for what, exactly?

He’s already half-seriously considering where and to whom he should file a complaint when there’s suddenly a door on the other side of the room opening and a young woman wearing a strikingly red dress appears.

“Oh!”

Apparently, she’s as much surprised by him as he is by her. Nevertheless, she flashes him a nervous smile.

“Hi,”  Enjolras lifts his hand in greeting, and stands up. “I’m here for the – ”

“Beginners yoga. Of course.” She lifts her hand to her face and shakes her head, blushing a little. “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. You must be Courfeyrac’s friend?”

“I am,” he says, extending his hand. “Enjolras.”

“Floréal. Look, I’m _really_ sorry about what happened here.” 

He seriously wonders what Courfeyrac has told her about him; she is looking up at him with her clear blue eyes, searching his face as though he is a mystery to be uncovered.

“That’s fine, but I still really have no idea what did happen?”

 “Well, the class got cancelled due because the lady teaching it had some personal stuff to deal with,” she replies, fidgeting with the lock of her necklace. She looks a little uncomfortable. “It was all very last minute and I’m afraid I hadn’t put you on the mailing list yet – we sent out an email last night -, so you sort of missed the memo. I’m really sorry if I’ve caused you any inconvenience.”

Enjolras can feel his frustration ebb away into something that feels a little more like resignation. “It’s alright. But I’d appreciate it if you’d put me on the mailing list as soon as possible.” He surprises himself by saying this. Is he really planning on coming back?

To be honest, he now was rather curious about the whole yoga thing, and Floréal seemed nice enough. There were lots of friends of Courfeyrac that Enjolras has never heard about, but Floréal, in fact, he has been told a little about. Enjolras knows he’s considered as blind and oblivious as a hibernating bear, but he doesn’t think he was wrong when he made the assumption that there had once been a little something between this Floréal and Courfeyrac. She’s a salsa dancer, an English major/aspiring teacher, and apparently, according to Courfeyrac, her looks are deceiving and she would be perfectly capable of stabbing a knife in someone if the need ever arose.

Floréal is nodding vigorously at him now. “I’ll do it right away. Hey,” she adds, “if you’re still in the yoga mindset, there’s another teacher with some spare time that’s just come in. I could arrange for you two to do a private lesson? On the house?”

A small grin appears on her face, and Enjolras can see why Courfeyrac would like her so much. Her offer seems reasonable enough. Though the thought of a private lesson is frankly horrifying, seeing as how he’s never even attempted a yoga pose (okay, maybe he has, in the privacy of his bedroom – but nobody will ever know), and his inability to properly move his limbs will be all the more clear to the teacher, Enjolras has never been one to refuse a challenge.

So, perhaps against better judgement, he nods at Floréal, and tells her it’s a deal, but not before he’s made Floréal promise that the instructor in question get paid all the same. It’s only fair.

\--

Floréal has told him to sit back down on the sofa, have a cup of coffee, and wait for her while she arranges the private lesson, so that’s what he does. Never the most patient creature in the world, he takes out his phone.

 **Enjolras** : Can you believe that my class was cancelled? Your friend is arranging a private lesson for me now with another person so I won’t have wasted my time in coming here. Service!

 **Courfeyrac** : Oh my GOd. Oh my sweet lord. Christmas has come early this year. My dreams are coming true. My prayers have been answered.

 **Enjolras** : ????

 **Courfeyrac** : Enj, whatever you do, stay calm. Don’t freak out.

 **Enjolras** : ???????!!!!

 **Courfeyrac** : Seriously. Don’t freak out.

 **Courfeyrac:** Meanwhile: ahahahahahahahaha

 **Enjolras** : I have literally no idea what this is about but I have a feeling I’m not going to like it very much.

 **Courfeyrac** : Ur going to find out soon enough hahahaa

He is thinking of a reply when Floréal re-enters, swinging her hips, a satisfied smirk on her face. The difference to the nervous girl from a few minutes ago is striking. Floréal is in control of this situation and he has no idea what’s going on.

“If you’d like to follow me? We’ll go up to the classroom. He’ll be waiting for you there.”

Enjolras nods, and then Floréals words sink in. He. He’d sort of assumed that the teacher would be a woman, like the instructor who had cancelled at the last minute. Wrong assumption, it turns out. Still, he follows her up the stairs, through a spacious corridor until she stops in front of a door that’s opened just a crack.

“This is it,” she smiles, eyes twinkling. “I’ll leave you two to it. I’m going to head down and put your name on the mailing list, _right now_.”

Enjolras nods and says his goodbyes, his mind a little preoccupied, because he has a strange feeling about this whole business. With Floréal’s sudden grinning and Courfeyrac’s disconcerting texts, he has a _very_ strange feeling about this.

It all falls into place when he pushes the door open. Everything is clear. This explains _so much_.

Still, he is fucked. Because the person who is leaning against the mirrored wall of the studio, furiously typing on his phone is unquestionably Grantaire. He can’t see much of him, but he recognises the wild mess of dark hair and the way he holds his body.

He isn’t sure if he should step inside. He can still flee. He can run and never come back. Nobody will know that he was in there – except that’s not true at all. He had told -- or rather, _Courfeyrac_ had-- all his friends he would start following a yoga class. Floréal, who was probably another devil incarnate like Courf, knew. She had probably also told Grantaire that Enjolras would be there.

He’s still mentally debating whether he should stay or go, when Grantaire looks up from his phone and sees that the door has been opened, and Enjolras has no choice now but to enter. He sighs.

Grantaire is looking thoroughly miserable. There’s a sullen expression on his face and his downcast eyes won’t quite meet Enjolras’ eyes when he enters.

“Uhm, hey,” Enjolras says.

“Hi,” Grantaire offers him a wry smile, but nothing more. No explanation.

“Look, I –” “You don’t – ” They start speaking at the same time.

Grantaire makes a sort of bow, so Enjolras starts first. “I’m, eh, well, the other instructor couldn’t make it and I wasn’t informed and then Floréal set me up with another teacher, who turns out to be...you.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows slightly at Enjolras’ turn of phrase.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but yes, it is me. Look here,” he says, refusing to let Enjolras politely protest his statement. “There are two options. The first is that we don’t do this. That you leave and join the beginners class with Simone next week. That we don’t speak about this. Ever.”

“Or?” Enjolras urges him on.

“Or,” Grantaire continues with a sigh, “we’re going to be adults about this situation. I am a yoga instructor and you want to follow a yoga class and that’s the only thing we have in common – besides that we don’t know each other, we’re total strangers.”

“That’s not so very far from the truth, is it?” Enjolras says, because it is true. They are strangers. He knows nothing about Grantaire besides the fact that he likes to drink beer and antagonise Enjolras on Thursday nights.

“That’s not an answer.”

Enjolras doesn’t respond immediately, then something comes to mind.

“You know I was going to come here for lessons,” Enjolras states.

“How is this even vaguely an answer? You’re usually more decided than this.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why, so I could’ve spared you the agony of having to go through this yoga class with me?” Grantaire crosses his arms defensively.

“Jesus, no. That’s not what I meant. I just...” Truth is, Enjolras isn’t entirely sure what he _did_ mean. “I’m just very surprised, is all. And I don’t really see why you didn’t mention you worked here.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s a self-preservation thing, I guess.”

Self-preservation? Enjolras has lost track of the conversation. “For _what_?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,”

“Well, I would.” Enjolras says, almost defiant. He, too, crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“I guess you’ll never find out.”

Grantaire turns around and looks for his backpack. When he finds it, he starts collecting his stuff and throwing it in, until Enjolras objects. “Hey, you aren’t leaving, right?”

“You don’t want lessons from me, so maybe I’ll just go and you can go home too and work on that case of yours.”

Enjolras is slightly surprised that Grantaire knows about the case. Well. Not slightly. He is _very_ surprised. He hadn’t thought Grantaire took an interest in him beyond their usual Thursday Night Arguments.

Then, another thought strikes him: is it wrong of him to refuse to take an interest in Grantaire?

“I’m sorry, R.” He says, sighing. Grantaire’s head whips up at the mention of the nickname all his friends use for him. “I shouldn’t be so harsh, maybe. It’s pathetic to offer these kinds of excuses, but you know, _stress_. And this is weird and sudden. And as you said, we should be adults about this. So, if you’re still up for it...?”

Grantaire nods, a little hesitant,  and sends Enjolras to a dressing room so he can change into more comfortable clothes. When he returns, there are two rectangular mats on the floor, and soft, ambient music is coming from the speakers that are installed in every corner of the room.

When he sees Enjolras enter, Grantaire points at one of the mats for Enjolras to sit on. There’s a visible change in Grantaire’s attitude. Where he was nervous and maybe a little upset before, he is now the epitome of relaxed professionalism. He sits down across from Enjolras, confident and smiling. Enjolras is baffled by the change. He had never imagined Grantaire could be professional, that he could do anything that did not involve being provocative and disturbing. He hasn’t imagined much about Grantaire at all, now that he thinks about it.

“Alright, so how..?” Enjolras is clueless. He sits down and folds his legs up under him.

When Grantaire starts talking, telling him a little about the background and history of yoga in a soft but clear and melodious voice, Enjolras finds himself calming down and warming to the idea of doing it.

“Just try to relax first. I think that is something we should focus on for now. Relaxation, I think, is the goal for most people who do yoga. Or rather, some people call it being ‘consciously conscious’. Ultimately through yoga, you will come to realise that all social obligations, your bad habits, all the ‘musts’ and ‘shoulds’ in your life.. well, they are essentially self-imposed. How badly stressed you are, what state your body is in – these are things you can govern yourself. Ever heard about mindfulness?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Combeferre talked about it once or twice, and I believe Jehan is crazy about it. But I’m too restless to even sit still for two minutes on end, so it hasn’t worked for me.” Grantaire’s air of professionalism somehow makes him feel much more at ease with the man than he normally would be. It’s as though he is sitting across from a completely different person.

Grantaire looks slightly surprised, and nods. “It’s good that you tried that. Maybe you just need something that is a little more active, but still relaxing. Yoga, for me, is something between an intense work-out and a mindfulness session – which can be difficult, I agree with you on that.”

 Enjolras his eyebrows at being agreed with. It feels strange, unnerving, but good.

Grantaire continues, “But don’t be fooled: yoga is more intense than you can imagine. But I think yoga is the better option for you, because you’ll be able to actually _focus_ on _doing_ something. It will be hard at first. Your body, I think, isn’t very accustomed to the sort of yoga I usually teach.”

“Do you teach at a high level?”

“Yes,” Grantaire replies. “Mostly Advanced classes. But I do a Beginners class here and there,” he adds with a small smile. “Well, I have a question for you before we start. What is it you want to accomplish through yoga?”

“Well, Combeferre says that –”

He is interrupted.

“I’m not talking about what Combeferre wants you to accomplish through yoga. Everybody has a different goal, so what is yours? Your real, ultimate goal. What you want to achieve most. You don’t have to answer straight away if you don’t know. Perhaps you’ll find out somewhere along the way.”

Enjolras nods, slowly. There is something a little disconcerting about being asked about his deepest desires and wishes by someone who is at the same time someone he knows and does not know at all. He thinks, for a moment, and then speaks.

“What I want is to be able to work, to be a part of Les Amis, as a business as well as a friend group, to have hobby’s and pursuits – and to be able to mix all of these things together in one life without Courfeyrac and Combeferre looking at me as though I am a porcelain vase, ready to crack and burst at the smallest disturbance.”

Grantaire looks taken aback, and is Grantaire again for one second. “Wow, alright. I hadn’t expected you to get so deep.”

Enjolras’ brows furrow. There you go, he thought. It was never going to work, and he had known it from the start. He was professional at first, but couldn’t help being like he always was with Enjolras in the end. Enjolras crossed his arms. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

Grantaire holds up his hands in a stopping motion. “Hey, Enj, there is no need to get defensive. It wasn’t a criticism. I was just surprised, you’re not usually so open about your emotions.”

Enjolras is still annoyed, but it ebbs away, slowly. “Sorry. It’s just..weird, I guess.”

Grantaire laughs breathily. “It sure is that. Do you want to go on?”

He considers for a moment, and then nods. “I’m here, aren’t I? And you’re getting paid? And I would do anything to satisfy Ferre and Courf. Else they might start charging me for massaging my back.”

Grantaire’s reply is a snort. “I could see Courf doing that, definitely. Combeferre, not so much.”

“Are you kidding me? Combeferre is a criminal mastermind. He would jump at the chance. You think Courfeyrac is bad, just wait until you get acquainted with every single devious thing Combeferre has ever done.”

“I’ll have to take you up on that. Hey, you know what? I believe we’re actually having a civil conversation, and I’m not even feeling the urge to egg you into an argument.”

“This must be a very rare feeling for you.” Enjolras replies.

Grantaire nods solemnly. “Now, as much as I enjoy this unique moment of truce between us, perhaps we should get on with yoga.”

“You’re right. Where were we? Oh, yeah. My ultimate goal. Which is not worrying Courfeyrac and Combeferre unduly.”

Grantaire shifts on his mat. “Right. So we’ve established that. Let’s get on with the actual yoga-part. I just want to say, yoga takes determination and concentration. You must be focused at all times - focused on your breathing, the way you’re standing, what you’re thinking. So all in all, it should be perfect for you. Well, let’s get to it.”

Half an hour later and Enjolras is much hotter and sweatier than he had thought he would be. He feels strangely invigorated, even though they’re not doing a great amount of actual physical exercise. He is amazed, sitting on his mat, his eyes closed, breathing to the sound of Grantaire’s voice. He finds it works much better to be mindful when someone else is guiding him through it, than attempting it himself. There is something grounding about Grantaire’s voice that he had never heard in it before.

When Enjolras has his breathing and thinking sufficiently under control, they move onto stretching. Grantaire guides him onto hands and knees, and tells him to arch his back, and then make it hollow. He can feel the muscles in his back work and unwind. Slowly, they go through a couple of simple yoga poses that, Grantaire tells him afterwards, he can easily do at home, or during a lunch break when his neck and back feel particularly tense. But nevertheless, they leave him feel simultaneously deliciously rested and exhausted.

He is surprised when he is woken up from his mind by Grantaire’s soft voice telling him that they’re done. He opens his eyes and smiles. “Thank you for that.”

Grantaire returns the smile. “You’re welcome. How are you feeling?”

“Good. Really good, actually. I hadn’t expected to be able to get into these kind of poses. I have the flexibility of a stick.”

“Hah, well. There’s more to come to challenge your flexibility. Which will increase, by the way, the more you do these exercises. But you did really well today.”

“Yeah, I enjoyed it. Don’t tell Courfeyrac that, I want him to feel a little guilty about blackmailing me.”

“Courfeyrac would never feel anything close to guilt about blackmailing someone into yoga. Sorry to break it to you.”

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees. “You’re probably right.”

They both stand up and stow away their mats. Enjolras waits in the doorway for Grantaire to pick up his backpack. Grantaire locks the door beside him and points at the changing room. “You can shower there, if you want. There’s probably nobody there, since Simone’s classes are all cancelled today, what’s new?” He says it in a derogatory way.

“No thanks, I’ll shower at home,” Enjolras replies. “And what do you  mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing. I don’t think I should be gossiping about my colleagues, but she’s not exactly the most reliable person to work at this company.”

“Oh, I see. So I’ll be seeing more of you then, I guess? If her classes get cancelled again.” He doesn’t exactly register his own words, until he sees surprise written across Grantaire’s face, instantly replaced – or hidden – by a cheeky grin. It is more than enough to remind Enjolras of his surroundings, and of what had just happened.

 “Well, perhaps,” Grantaire says jokingly, “If you want to. We could. Private lessons don’t come cheap, though.”

Enjolras smiles awkwardly and nods, suddenly unaware of what to do with himself. Before the yoga, everything was bad. It was awful. Awkward. Then during it their animosity gave way because of Grantaire’s professionalism. They’re now somewhere in between, and Enjolras doesn’t know how to. “The yoga was nice, thank you. I’ll contact you about it if I want more lessons. Or I’ll tell you, since I think we’ll be seeing you this Thursday?”

Grantaire shakes his head and makes a face. “No, I can’t. I’m accompanying a school trip this weekend, and the bus leaves very early on Thursday. So.. I won’t be at the meeting Saturday either.”

Enjolras thinks that this must be the first time Grantaire has ever missed a meeting. “Oh, that’s alright.” Looking behind Grantaire, he sees a clock on the wall announcing the time. It’s the perfect excuse. “Damn, it’s getting late,” he says, regaining his sure and confident voice. “I should really be going. Thank you, R., for your lesson. It was really good. I hope you enjoy your trip, and I’ll see you next Thursday then?”

He doesn’t quite understand the look on Grantaire’s face, but he thinks he is struggling with the same awkwardness as he is.

“Sure, you won’t have to miss me for very long, no worries. And not a problem. Yoga will do you good, I really think so.” He smiles, and then because neither of them are moving, he looks behind him to check the time, and Enjolras is reminded that he was just about to leave.

He professes his thankfulness again, and then is secretly even more thankful to be able to leave the building, his head in knots, vowing to never talk of this to anyone.

Safe to say, _that_ doesn’t work out as he thinks it’s going to.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this over a year ago. I recently reread what I've written so far, and made it my New Year's Resolution to continue writing. :)


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